


Vocabulary Test

by CoffeeWithConsequences



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Fluff, Happy, Inspired by Art, M/M, No Angst, Romance, Words
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-15
Updated: 2018-03-15
Packaged: 2019-03-31 18:24:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13980817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoffeeWithConsequences/pseuds/CoffeeWithConsequences
Summary: Eames finds one of Arthur's insecurities and makes it into an overture. All fluff, no angst!





	Vocabulary Test

**Author's Note:**

  * For [swtalmnd](https://archiveofourown.org/users/swtalmnd/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Prepositioning](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13962585) by [swtalmnd](https://archiveofourown.org/users/swtalmnd/pseuds/swtalmnd). 



Arthur never liked words. He’d been slow to talk--nearly two before anything intelligible came out, and then saddled with a stutter. Years of speech therapy took care of it, but the memory of being teased for how he spoke (or didn’t speak) never disappeared. Reading was nearly as bad--he learned, eventually, but it was a long slog, and letters never seemed to behave the way he wanted them to. There were rules, but they were broken as often as they were obeyed. Numbers, at least, could follow their own logic.

As an adult, Arthur taught himself enough to keep from humiliation. If he wasn’t sure, he kept his mouth shut, and any speech longer than a few sentences was polished in front of the mirror until it shone. He learned how far he could go with efficient actions that didn’t need words, and how he could use his tone to make people believe that he wasn’t afraid to talk, he just didn’t bother.

Arthur’s preference for monosyllables left him both indebted to and irritated by those who talked a lot. Cobb, with his constant pontificating, made Arthur’s life easier in many ways--he took up enough of the air, enough of the silence, as to put little pressure on Arthur. Other extractors tended toward the same, always anxious to hear their own voices. The most obvious example, though, was Eames.

Eames never shut up. He spoke in riddles and innuendo and dropped references to books and movies (he called them “films”) and poems and plays. He wove in ancient history, psychological theory, and pornography. As overwhelming and exhausting as it was, Arthur found it amazing. He could keep a similar depth and breadth of knowledge in his head, but there was no way he could ever get it to come out of his mouth in a seamless stream, like Eames did without even needing to think.

Given Arthur’s tentative feelings about words, and Eames’ absolute love of them, playing Scrabble with Eames was--literally--the stuff of Arthur’s nightmares. Yet here they were. On what had to be the sixteenth game.

Arthur had given in to the demands for a game only on their third day in the safe house, when he started to fear Eames’ threats to shoot himself out of boredom were not actually hyperbolic. The house was, to put it generously bare bones. There was a generator, so they could get a bit of electricity every day, but there was no Internet or phone access, no television, no radio. There was food, but it all came from cans, as there was no refrigerator. There were sufficient blankets, and it wasn’t cold, but the beds were hard. There were three books, all crime novels, all of which Eames read the first day. Neither of them had a pack of cards.

Oddly, there was a Scrabble board.

When Arthur finally consented to play, it was with a warning. “You are going to be better at this than I am. If you get obnoxious about it, I’m not playing anymore.”

Eames grinned. “Why pet, I think that’s the first time you’ve ever considered I might be better than you at anything!”

It wasn’t true, of course. Arthur was fully aware of a great many things at which Eames was better. Eames, who didn’t advertise it, but had gone to the best schools in England, including university. Eames who had read nearly everything anybody ever mentioned, but saw no reason to bring it up unless specifically asked. Eames who could read people, who understood them, who could talk to anybody. Eames knew about art and literature and philosophy and all of the things that Arthur had simply never learned. Though he might not see it, Arthur was acutely aware of these inadequacies.

Eames won the first game, then the second. He didn’t brag about it, just nodded and asked if Arthur wanted to play another. He didn’t hold back, adding words that Arthur had never heard. Arthur knew better than to question them, and if he had, it wouldn’t have helped--not like they had a dictionary. After a while, Arthur stopped feeling so anxious. He wasn’t embarrassing himself too badly, and at least they had something to do now.

After about ten games, Eames started using only words he considered sexual. This wasn’t terribly difficult, as he considered all sorts of words sexual. He scored triple words on “fellatio” and “threesome,” then used a cleverly placed “s” to connect “gonads” and “perineums” (after a brief discussion of whether the plural of perineum might be “perinea”). His score skyrocketed, but Arthur couldn’t help but giggle, just a little.

Finally, nearing the end of a game, Arthur spotted a triple word score space three letters before Eames’ “position.” He grinned at his tiles. He still wouldn’t win, but this would be the closest one yet. Carefully, he laid out his word “P-R-E-P-O-S-I-T-I-O-N.”

Eames raised an eyebrow. “Well done.”

It was stupid, but after three days in hiding, doing absolutely nothing, little things started to take on greater importance. “Goes with your theme, too,” he said.

Eames looked puzzled. “I don’t follow?”

Arthur traced the letters briefly with his finger. “Are you losing your touch, Mr. Eames? Thought for sure you’d think I was prepositioning you!” As it came out of his mouth, though, it sounded wrong. He wrinkled his brow.

To his credit, Eames tried to hide his smile. It took Arthur only a moment to realize his mistake; as soon as he did, his ears started to burn. It had been years since he’d had this kind of fuck-up. “Proposition,” he muttered. “That’s a proposition.”

Eames looked curious. “Not a big deal, pet,” he said. “And 45 points!”

Arthur scowled and scribbled his total down. “Your turn, Eames.”

When the game ended, Eames knew better than to ask him to play another.

After they got the all-clear and went their separate ways, it was months before Arthur and Eames met again, on another job. Arthur never really forgot an embarrassment, so the “Scrabble Incident” was still in his mind, but he fully expected that Eames would forget it. He seemed to have done so.

The job was nothing dangerous, so there was no need to scatter afterward. As Arthur cleaned up the workspace, he noted Eames was still hanging around, but didn’t think a whole lot of it until he turned and found Eames at his elbow.

“Above,” Eames said, his voice low and husky. He met Arthur’s eyes and licked his lips. It was a basic Eames move, and Arthur had seen it dozens of times, both on Eames’ true face and on his forges.

Before Arthur could think of how to reply, Eames continued. “Beneath?” he asked, raising his eyebrows questioningly.

Arthur shook his head. “What the…?”

Eames interrupted, moving a step closer, so Arthur could feel the heat radiating from his body. “Inside,” he said, near-growling. He ran a hand down his torso, moving from suggestive to lewd in a second.

Arthur’s mouth went dry. Eames flirted all the time--with him, and with everybody. But this was far less subtle than even the most direct of his usual approaches. Even if the words made no sense.

Eames reached out, tracing a finger down the buttons of Arthur’s jacket. “Onto,” he said softly.

“What are you doing, Eames?” Arthur’s voice came out breathier than he intended.

Eames smiled, moving even closer, so his body was right up against Arthur’s. He pushed his thumb briefly against Arthur’s bottom lip, and Arthur had to struggle not to bite it. “I’m prepositioning you, darling.” He smiled, and there was no malice in it, no ridicule.

Arthur gaped a moment longer, gathering his thoughts, trying to find something to say. Eames interrupted again. “Arthur,” he said, “you have the sharpest mind I know. Nobody can see around the corner like you do, think of every contingency, figure every angle.” He reached out again, caressing the side of Arthur’s face so briefly it seemed barely to have happened. “I don’t know who convinced you that you aren’t smart, but they were wrong.”

Arthur was shocked. It wasn’t precisely that he didn’t think he was smart, but he knew what Eames meant. All of his insecurities, not being educated, not being good with words. After years of hiding them, it had taken nothing but a boring hideout and a few games of Scrabble for Eames to lay them all open. “I know I’m not dumb,” he said. “I just...words aren’t my thing.”

Eames smiled again, that same warm, fond look, and moved ever closer. “That’s something I like about you,” he said. “Most people talk too fucking much.”

Arthur couldn’t help a small grin. “Like you?” he asked.

Eames nodded. “Exactly like me.” He was so close now, Arthur could smell him, ink and pomade and some sort of hippy patchouli soap.

“Peck,” Eames said, his eyes never leaving Arthur’s face. “Smooch. Smack. Snog. Salutation.”

Slowly, Arthur nodded. “Kiss,” he said.

Then neither of them spoke for a long time.

**Author's Note:**

> Please come visit me on [Tumblr](https://coffeewithconsequences.tumblr.com/) or read the rest of my fic here at [Archive of Our Own](http://archiveofourown.org/users/CoffeeWithConsequences/works)!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Vocabulary Test](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17319023) by [flosculatory](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flosculatory/pseuds/flosculatory)




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